


Night Out

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, College Malcolm, Eye Scream, Fluff, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Wholesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23058769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm's home at the Arroyos on spring break, and he prepares for a night out. Jackie gives him some help.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Eye Scream. I promise, no one's eyes get poked out. This turned into wholesome soff fluff - I could not tell you how.
Relationships: Jackie Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Night Out

**Author's Note:**

> this is for my discord pals, to whom i liberally promised no one's eyes would get poked out. we can all forget about the trope definition page now. :P

Malcolm returns to New York for spring break, staying with the Arroyos. "Don't tell Mother I'm here," he warns, not wanting to trade escaping the strain of school for the chaos of his mother. He hides out with Gil and Jackie, and together they wander the city when they can.

Friday, Gil gets held at work late, and Jackie and Malcolm keep all the pastelillos to themselves. Which really means Malcolm eats one, Jackie has her fill, and the rest go onto a plate to wait in the microwave until Gil gets home. But they don’t tell him that - only text him a photo of one of their empty plates. After they clean up, Malcolm says he’s going to go out and disappears to get ready.

A black leather jacket goes over his screen printed t-shirt, his typical denim traded for a pair of tapered skinny jeans. He waffles in front of the mirror on the back of his door deciding whether the studded belt is too much and keeps it. He pulls an unopened package from his bag and heads to the bathroom.

The wrapper gets discarded in the trash, he pulls the cap, and he leans into the mirror. Overhead lights glint off his eyes, the liquid eyeliner pen a few inches away from his face. How does Ainsley do this every day? Her makeup looks flawless at fourteen. His mind circles through the many reasons he probably should have asked, from he has no idea what the hell he’s doing to she may have been able to give him some pointers. But she wouldn't have understood. He’d just bought the eyeliner she did and hoped for the best.

With his trembling hand, he's sure he'll pierce through to his brain. Through his eyeball, bleeding back into the darkness he hasn't managed to extract with endless therapy sessions. _Psych student impales himself with eyeliner, ends up in psych hospital_ , he's sure the headline will say, and everyone would laugh, "Of course it's The Surgeon's kid."

If Mother didn't bury him instead. He paints an epitaph of: _Here lies Malcolm Bright, nee Whitly, son of Jessica and Martin Whitly, a.k.a. The Surgeon_. Scans the papers: _Couldn’t cut it; dead by eyeliner penetration_.

He brings the pen closer, an inch away from his mark. He wants to try a new coat of being himself, but he fears he's chancing his vision. Why does he want to do this? He reminds it was an idea to try to feel more like himself and less like _him_. In Malcolm’s apprehension, he realizes he’s just wielding a different weapon, and his hand shakes with the worry this may be it.

Will it drill through to his soul, exposing want for any gender he can have a vibrant conversation with? Will it carve away the good parts of him, only his father's evil left to fill his head? They’re all his thoughts, his desires: no one else belongs messing with them. He’s starting to feel proud of who he is. _Dammit_ , just use the pen.

With a deep breath, he tries to steady his hand. He advances the fine point toward his eye, starting near his nose. He stutters, yet makes his mark, completing the first dash. He pulls back, losing his confidence. He’s looking down a skewer threatening poking into his glassy blues, and his stomach’s telling him he can’t do this. Uneasiness turns him brewing sick.

On another deep breath, he wields the spike again and makes a trail of small overlapping dashes out to the far corner. A sewing needle staggering its stitches. It's not straight, but it's _on_. He breathes once more to celebrate the small victory.

His wrist contorts contemplating the right angle so he doesn’t spear his other eye. Lining it starts worse, yet proceeds similarly, some of the dashes straighter than others. So the edges are a little jagged - fits his personality.

He needs a moment to collect himself and takes a step back from the mirror to lean against the wall. He can't tell the lines are a little messed up unless he's close up. He hopes no one else will be able to either.

He takes another deep breath and dries his palms on his pants. He twists his wrist: two more lines and he's done. He can do this.

The pen’s perilously close to the edge of his bottom lid, teetering on the stretch from his tear duct. As he approaches the far corner, his hand shakes the pen into the white, sticking his eye. The pen drops to the sink; his hand clutches at the stab of pain and smears the ink. He pops his smarting eye open enough to see it’s _black_ and scrambles out the door.

Knock - knock - knock. “Jackie?” Malcolm calls, panic bleeding into his voice. Knock - knock. “Jackie?”

She opens the door to her and Gil’s bedroom, asking “What is it?” at the same time. She finds Malcolm with his eyes squinted shut, eyeliner smudged across his lids. “What’s wrong?” she rests her hands on his shoulders.

“I got it in my eye,” he rushes to explain. “It feels weird - is it gonna make me blind?”

She keeps her chuckle over his jump to the worst case scenario inside and takes over rectifying the situation. “Come with me.”

She leads him back to the bathroom and turns on the vanity light. “Open for me,” she instructs, her thumb on his cheek.

There’s black in the white of his right eyeball, what she presumes is liquid eyeliner swimming toward the corner. Her assumption is confirmed when she removes the pen from the sink in order to turn on the tap. “Keep flushing water into it,” she guides, recapping the pen.

He brings palmful after palmful of water to his eye, bracing himself as it stings across the surface. Jackie takes in his outfit, noting clothes she’s never seen before, smiles that he’s trying on new skin. After a minute or so, Jackie touches his elbow, and he straightens again.

A bit of liquid eyeliner is congealed into the corner of his eye. She dabs it away with a makeup pad from a jar on the counter. “That feel better?” she asks.

He takes a look in the mirror. His eye is red, but clear. The stickiness is gone. His makeup mimics the after-afterparty, drunk and seeping into the next day. “Yeah,” he confirms. “Thank you.”

The urgency of the moment passed, she wonders, “What kind of look were you going for?”

His eyes find the sink. "Cabaret meets Green Day.”

“Do you want some help?” she offers, her tone warm and ready to give whatever he needs - so _Jackie_.

“Sure.” He hangs his head. “Thank you.”

She hands him makeup wipes from under the counter. “You don’t need to be ashamed,” she reminds him, carrying an undercurrent of _not of himself_ , _not in their house_.

“It’s the first time I’m trying this,” he admits. “And the tremor…”

She halts his descent into self-deprecation. “I get it. I’ve poked my own eyes a few times, and I’ve had forty years of practice.” She laughs, poking fun at herself instead of dwelling on him.

He rinses his face, and Jackie grabs a wipe to catch a spot he missed near his eyebrow. “Alright, come sit out in the kitchen,” she directs.

She draws his eyeliner thick around the lid with one of her own pencils and sweeps a downward wing at the corners with his pen, sharing tips along the way. With a brush, she blends dark eyeshadow into it, giving him a sooty look. She hands him the mirror, getting him to check her work. “Thank you,” he replies, seeing a bit more of himself staring back at him.

“Do you want to do a little something with your hair?” she asks. “I could give you a bit of the Billie Joe spike.”

“Yes, please,” he accepts.

She gets wax and hairspray and gives his hair a tousle. She hasn’t styled it since he was younger, and then he’d always wanted it slicked back. It’s a warm memory wrapped in a nice change. “How’s that?”

“Looks great.” He kicks himself - he should have just asked. "Thank you.”

“Where are you off to?” she inquires, hands resting on his shoulders from behind.

“A club with a few friends.” His cheeks pinken.

The year between high school and college had been good to him. Friends were a new concept; he hadn’t had many in the past. Whether it was transition to Bright, distance from Martin, trying new experiences, or some combination of all of them, he seemed more himself.

“Can I take a picture to show Gil?” Jackie asks.

“If you’re in it," he agrees in typical fashion.

She hands him her phone and he stretches his arm out to capture them both in a selfie. His smile reaches his impeccably lined eyes.

While he heads off gathering his things, Jackie sends the photo to Gil. “Kid’s first night out,” she captions it.

"Tell him he looks great, and give us a call if he ends up drinking,“ he replies.

She shows Malcolm her phone, they share a smile teasing _yes, dad_ , part with a hug, and he ventures into the night.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
